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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896903">RNG Kinktober Shorts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne'>Bohemienne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Hades (Video Game 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:30:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26896903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemienne/pseuds/Bohemienne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I threw ships and kinks I like into a spreadsheet and randomly pick one of each every day (with some voting/requests from Twitter). Ship, kink, and additional content warnings (if applicable) will be in the chapter summary for each.</p><p>1: Orgasm denial/delay (Hubert/Sylvain)<br/>2: Creampie (Jeritza/m!Byleth)<br/>3: Tentacles (Marianne/Hilda)<br/>4: Breathplay (Hubert/Ferdinand)<br/>5: Crying (Hubert/Sylvain)<br/>6: Hatesex (Hubert/Ferdinand)<br/>7: Nipple play (Mercedes/Annette)<br/>8: Spanking (Acheron/Metodey)<br/>9: Semi-public (Zagreus/Thanatos) (Hades: Video Game)<br/>10: Lingerie, heels (Sylvain/Hubert)<br/>11: Weaponplay (Hubert/Ferdinand)<br/>12: Overstimulation (Dedue/Dimitri)<br/>13: Catboy (Claude/Lorenz)<br/>14: Mirror sex (Dorothea/Edelgard)</p><p>I'll only add to the AO3 weekly so as not to be too spammy!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Jeritza von Hrym/My Unit | Byleth, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra, Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>174</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hubert/Sylvain: Orgasm denial/delay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Randomized ships and kinks. Sort of. Check chapter headings and summaries for ships and additional content warnings!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain’s clear discomfort throughout the war council is a delicious sight, one Hubert enjoys almost as much as the plans and preparations themselves. He is uncharacteristically quiet, shifting in his chair with a vaguely queasy expression throughout the drawn-out proceedings, and when at last the meeting is adjourned and the rest of the Strike Force hurries out of the room to clear their heads of thoughts of war, Hubert hangs back, taking considerable time to tidy up his notes and thoroughly clean out his ink quill whilst endeavoring not to let a single drop reach his white cotton gloves.</p>
<p>“Seriously, Vestra?” Sylvain huffs, slumping against the doorway as he waits for Hubert. “I swear, you’re doing this on purpose.”</p>
<p>“Of course I am.” Hubert stacks his notebooks with a smile and finally stands from his chair to head Sylvain’s way. “You forget I am well-versed in the art of torture, after all.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I just didn’t think that meant—I mean, how often are you really—”</p>
<p>Hubert catches Sylvain’s jaw with one gloved hand and squeezes, pushing out those plush lips. He almost imagines he can still smell his own cock on Sylvain’s breath, the sole lingering evidence of Gautier’s cruel extortion that morning. Waking Hubert up with a clever tongue sliding up his thighs and coiling around his shaft, when he knew damned well they had an important meeting to attend to, and no time whatsoever for any foolishness.</p>
<p>Hubert lowers his voice into a feral snarl. The truth is, any torture he issues—especially to Sylvain—is just as much torture to himself, and even the prospect of their campaign’s conclusion being within reach was scarcely enough to distract him from the exquisite wrinkle of Sylvain’s brow, the frustration evident in cool copper eyes, the tease of a vast, sturdy chest and thighs beneath his teal shirt and dark red trousers. It was only his commitment to his lady—and his determination to see Sylvain’s suffering through—that kept him from seizing Gautier by those formidable wrists of his and shoving him to his knees.</p>
<p>“I can issue far, far crueler punishments than that ring if you’re going to insist.”</p>
<p>Sylvain hesitates, tongue darting across his own lower lip as he searches Hubert’s face. “I dunno. That might be kind of fun, now that you mention it—”</p>
<p>“Flames, you’re insufferable.” Hubert curls his gloved hand around Sylvain’s head and snatches a fistful of wavy red locks. “Pants. Down.”</p>
<p>He latches the council room doors locked as Sylvain eagerly shoves down his trousers, and then Hubert is bending him over the table, one hand reaching around to grab hold of Sylvain’s cock and the glinting metal ring that keeps it bound. “<em>Yes</em>,” Sylvain keens, “fucking finally, please, goddess, Hubert, <em>please</em>—”</p>
<p>“Shut up, you stupid slut.” He gives his shaft one swift pump, then uses his gloved hands to part Sylvain’s cheeks so he can better view that sweet hole of his, still puffy and raw from last night. “Be a good hole for me, and maybe I’ll let you cum this time.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be so good, I swear!” He tilts his hips to lift his ass further into Hubert’s grasp. “Please, please just let me cum. Last night, this morning, I swear, I’m trying so hard—”</p>
<p>Hubert fumbles himself out of his own trousers, and drizzles oil from a small vial onto Sylvain’s hole before lining up the head of his cock with that red ring. “Then prove it to me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jeritza/m!Byleth: Creampie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cw: roughness, blood</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Death is always lurking in the shadows, but in the soft candlelight of their bedroom, at least, he can sometimes find a reprieve.</p><p>Sweat dripping down well-carved muscles, his husband sighing softly beneath him, his pulse loud as hoofbeats in his ears, and beneath it all, a faint tinge of blood, tangy and coppery in the back of Jeritza’s mouth—it is enough, he thinks, to quiet his bloodlust and keep the death knight at bay for a precious short while. Byleth clenches around him and gazes at him with an expression so easy to mistake for fury, and Jeritza loves it, either way. “More,” he grunts, with each thrust of Jeritza’s hips. “More. More, <em>please</em> . . .”</p><p>When Jeritza comes, there’s a spark behind his eyes like light glinting off steel, and he shudders and roars, nails digging into Byleth’s arms, catching, tearing. Byleth’s own spend is already cooling against his stomach, and Jeritza stares at it as he tries to catch his breath, lost in that beautiful, silent haze where nothing and no one can touch him but his prey, his love, writhing beneath him.</p><p>“My demon,” Jeritza murmurs, blinking away the white blizzard in his sight. “My ashen demon.”</p><p>Byleth chuckles at him before closing those cold eyes. “My death.”</p><p>When Jeritza eases free of him, he has to stop to admire his handiwork. He rarely allows himself to be so vain, so indulgent on the battlefield—he is sated the moment he kills, and need not revel in the carnage. But the sight of his husband’s hole, angry and red and dripping with the proof of his touch, white and creamy and spilling upon the sheets—that much, he can be proud of. Grateful for, even. Night after night, he can lose himself in his love this way, and the proof lingers on their skin, in the air, staining their bed.</p><p>Some nights they bleed, too. Flecks of red sprouting from clawmarks on their backs or free himself this way.</p><p>“You’re quiet again,” Jeritza muses, and Byleth reaches down between his legs to swirl his fingers in the seed. Jeritza’s mouth goes dry as he watches Byleth bring his finger to his lips and lick it away.</p><p>“Just savoring you. Everything.” He smirks. “If this is what it means to be your prey, then hunt me all you like.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Marianne/Hilda: Tentacles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Whatever. This isn’t so bad.” Hilda yawns and stretches out on the bed as the first wisps of darkness start to drift around her like a mist. “You sure this is supposed to work, babe?”</p><p>Marianne smirks to herself as she continues to trace the sigils for the spell. She’s <em>so</em> glad they managed to get a copy of the ‘von Vestra tome’, as it’s been rather infamously come to be known. She’s glad for anything that lets her wipe the smug look off her wife’s face from time to time, knock her from her practiced jadedness and easy routine with something that’ll put that cute rosy bloom all over her face, darker pink than even her hair.</p><p>It may not look it yet, but she’s sure this spell will do the trick nicely.</p><p>“O-oh,” Hilda says, sounding more curious than surprised. “They’re kinda . . . dense now?”</p><p>Marianne glances up from the tome to spot how the dark tendrils are coalescing, thicker and vinous now as they slither around Hilda’s thighs. She reflexively spreads her legs, and Marianne’s smirk deepens at the glint of sticky dampness between them, just as the first tentacle of shadow flicks along the edge of Hilda’s outer lips.</p><p>“—Oh, <em>fuck . . .</em>”</p><p>Marianne closes her eyes and sees and feels what the tentacle sees and feels: teasing at her wife’s clit, barely grazing it before pressing harder, while another tentacle coils around her thighs to push them wider apart. Rubbing along her, pushing against her hole without quite dipping inside, but those long, pointed spikes of shadow close, so close . . .</p><p>“C’mon, Mari, j-just do it already—”</p><p>“So impatient.” Marianne lowers her gaze to give her a dark look. “Maybe the whole point of these is to really take my time.”</p><p>She guides one tentacle further back, parting the cleft of Hilda’s ass as Hilda unleashes a hungry moan. Yet another glides up her stomach and between her breasts, lofting one just a fraction before curling comfortably around her neck—</p><p>“M-mari . . . ?”</p><p>“Too much talking, Hils.” She lets out a soft sigh, her own body echoing Hilda’s with a sudden need, but she’ll get everything she wants just watching, feeling herself guide their path. “Let’s see how much we can fill you up.”</p><p>“Uh, <em>we</em>—?”</p><p>The highest tentacle shoves into Hilda’s mouth just as one plunges into her pussy, and Marianne gives a throaty moan. She’s finished with conjuring the spell now, but she’s only getting started.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Hubert/Ferdinand: Breathplay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cw: choking, self-deprecation</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Maybe, on some level, he thinks he deserves this.</p><p>He deserves a little suffering, a little punishment and pain. For the years he tormented Ferdinand, and the even more years he’s tortured and killed many more. Choking is a useful tactic, after all; a garrote wire, a thick glove, his whole arm locking around a throat from behind. Poisons that swell the esophagus and make it impossible to breathe. Poisons that devour the lungs. He’s used it all.</p><p>He wants to know, too, how it feels to sense the darkness creeping in and the thoughts in his head whittle down to one muddled certainty: will this be how he dies?</p><p>And from his beloved, of all people—what a beautiful death it will be.</p><p>Ferdinand straddles him, knees digging into his sides, black leather gloves too tight on his sturdy cavalier’s hands. Each finger is a shackle digging into Hubert’s neck as he gazes up at Ferdinand, lustdrunk and sweaty as he thrusts up into him. “Harder. Harder, Ferdie. I’m already so close.”</p><p>“I’m trying, dammit!” Ferdinand cries, and maybe even more than the prickle of lightheadedness, the fear in copper eyes tugs deep in Hubert’s gut. Fear and a little vindication. Has Ferdinand dreamed of doing this to him before, so long ago? Maybe even not so far off—maybe sometimes he wants to throttle Hubert for his stubbornness and caustic ways. Hubert could hardly blame him. Seeing that fury unfold on his face, fuck, it’s just as sweet as the clench and pulse of his hole around Hubert’s cock—</p><p>“I love . . .”</p><p>But he’s wheezing now, and how he hopes Ferdinand won’t let up. How he doesn’t want to be let off easy for all the horrible things he’s done. He’s so close to unleashing inside Ferdinand, the pressure pushing inside his body and his skull.</p><p>“—You . . .”</p><p>And then it’s so easy to slip away that he barely notices it happening at all.</p>
<hr/><p>“Hubert? Hubert, I swear, if you’ve harmed yourself permanently—made <em>me</em> harm you in any way—I shall never forgive you—”</p><p>He blinks, the single candle in their room suddenly far too bright and insistent, and Ferdinand’s melodic voice too much, too—well, <em>melodic—</em></p><p>He breaks into a slow smile and reaches up, fingers flopping numbly against Ferdinand’s cheek. “You did it.”</p><p>“Well, of course!” The indignance softens, and Ferdinand leans down, sweat-damp curls curtaining their faces. “You asked me to.”</p><p>“And it was perfect,” Hubert murmurs.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Hubert/Sylvain: Crying</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cw: toxic masculinity</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Men don’t cry.</em> The margrave beat it into him a dozen times, and Miklan, hundreds more.</p><p>But looking up at Hubert, that raw fury in his curled upper lip, that burning-bile green in his eyes, and feeling the drag of his nails down Sylvain’s back as he thrusts into Sylvain—how could anyone not?</p><p>Sylvain’s been whipped and stripped and laid bare before him, forced to confess all the fears and doubts he’d rather never share. He’s given himself over to Hubert, completely; fed his own need for punishment and pain to Hubert’s need to inflict it, the need carved into Hubert’s flesh by his father, by his house name—and in doing so, neither has ever felt so loved, so cherished.</p><p>The sweetness with which Hubert traces gloved fingers down Sylvain’s back before scouring it with the flail.</p><p>The warmth and playfulness in that smooth, dark voice when he calls Sylvain names: <em>slut, mutt, hole.</em></p><p>The care he shows in taking Sylvain apart, his body and mind alike, studying each piece so he can reassemble him into something stronger, something more.</p><p>“I love you,” Sylvain murmurs, or tries to, around the cum-stained handkerchief shoved crudely into his mouth. Oh, how his dark interrogator loves to make him taste himself; like everything with them, punishments and rewards become one and the same. “I love you, I love you, how is it you get me . . . how do you <em>know</em> . . .”</p><p>Sylvain’s eyes are watery suddenly, his face hot with lingering shame as he comes again, and despite the awe and surprise he glimpses in Hubert’s blurred-out face, he hears Hubert grunting too as he joins him, filling Sylvain with his seed. They both gasp for air, Hubert slumping over him, but those sharp arms keep him upright over Sylvain. How Sylvain wishes he would collapse, too, so he isn’t the only one falling apart—</p><p>“Because you answer me,” Hubert mumbles. It sounds like nonsense at first, but then he’s running his fingers down Sylvain’s throat, nudging his mouth open with his own, kissing him, and Sylvain tastes salt from the tears apparently running down his own cheeks. “Everything I need, good and bad—it’s in you.”</p><p>And then he’s too overwhelmed to try to fight it. His nose is burning as the tears roll down. How long has he sought this, how many people has he used, and got nothing even remotely like this in return? Everything Sylvain wants—what he needs—</p><p>“And you give me everything.” He’s choking around these useless sobs. “So much more than I deserve.”</p><p>“No. Enough of that.” Hubert’s thumb teases down Sylvain’s lower lip, and he sucks it between his own, shooting heat down Sylvain’s core—and somehow the fact he’s getting turned on again only makes him cry <em>more</em> again, because what is this man? “You deserve everything.”</p><p>And with Hubert’s lips on his, even Sylvain can almost believe it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Hubert/Ferdinand: Hatesex</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>cw: pre-timeskip (both are 18+)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“About damned time you learned to shut up,” Hubert growls, tangling a gloved fist in orange waves. And, oh, if he isn’t tempted to rip his gloves off so he can feel for himself how silky it might be. But it would rather ruin the mood.</p><p>The mood being a dark stairwell in the monastery’s depths, just after another of their forced punishment chores turned into a row, and then into—this. Whatever this is. This time it was Ferdinand kissing and nibbling down Hubert’s neck, and then chest, and then hands at his belt and sinking to his knees and somehow it was such a painfully lovely sight, better than everything Hubert has imagined, and he’s imagined quite a lot—</p><p>Ferdinand glares up at him, which might be more effective if those pink lips of his weren’t currently wrapped around Hubert’s cock. Hubert has no basis for comparison, but Ferdinand’s technique seems quite good, all tongue and plush mouth and hint of teeth, and he’s not going to last long if he keeps focusing on it, so he forces himself to think of anything else.</p><p>Like how Ferdinand learned to do this in the first place. Who he might have done this with before. And it infuriates Hubert, stings like thorns under his skin, to think of someone else experiencing this mouth, and he tightens his grip on Ferdinand’s hair and starts to thrust his hips in to meet him. Harder, harder, until Ferdinand’s sputtering and <em>gluk</em>ing around him—</p><p>“Enough! Some appreciation you show,” Ferdinand yaps, wrenching out of Hubert’s grip and wiping his mouth on his uniform sleeve. “Maybe next time you ought to be the one trying that.”</p><p>And Hubert hates how that <em>next time</em> lingers between them. He can’t afford to think of them like that. Not that he can think about much except his head, dizzy with lust and his balls painfully tight and the precome drizzling from his cock. “I’ll do a damned sight better than you,” he manages to snap.</p><p>Ferdinand quickly stands up and flicks his bangs back into place. “Is that so?” His face is too close, and the scent of <em>Hubert</em> on his breath is almost enough to tip over the edge. “Prove it.”</p><p>Hubert snatches him by his white cravat and backs him against the other wall. “Maybe I will.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Mercedes/Annette: Nipple play</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“O-okay,” Mercedes’s husky voice calls through the door, “I think I’m ready now.”</p><p>Annette pushes through the door, and slides to a stop in her silk stockings on the cool stone floor. “Mercie?” she calls, peering around the bedposts. “C’mon, I wanna <em>seeeeeee</em>.”</p><p>Mercedes pushes aside one of the gauzy bed curtains with a tinkling of metal. “H-how does this look?”</p><p>Annette sucks in her breath. Rows and rows of delicate golden chains drape down Mercedes’s neck and shoulders, dangling over her heavy breasts, until finally the last row of chain is clamped onto her nipples themselves, just begging to be tugged. “Holy smokes,” Annette breathes, taking in the sight of her wife dazzling and golden. “Mercie. You look . . .”</p><p>Mercedes gives a nervous laugh. “You like it, right?”</p><p>“I <em>love</em> it.” Annette slips onto the mattress on her knees, and shuffles toward Mercedes, not even caring if she gets a run in her stockings. “You look like some kind of angel. A sexy, beautiful, divine, wicked angel!”</p><p>Mercedes giggles again. “You don’t mean that.”</p><p>“Of course I do!” She slips one hand underneath one of Mercedes’s breasts and hefts it in her palm, the chains clanking together. Goddess, she loves those boobs! She could get lost in them for days. Kind of literally. She might suffocate in them but it would be <em>worth it</em>. “All golden and sparkly.” She lowers her mouth to press a rounded kiss to the underside of her tit before licking up to the clamp, and giving a quick suck around it. “I could just gobble you up.”</p><p>Mercedes arches one eyebrow. “I was kind of hoping you’d take your time with me instead.”</p><p>Annette hooks her finger in the chain and gives it a sharp twist as a devilish grin splits her face. Mercedes yelps—but it quickly resolves into a soft, breathy moan. Of all the beautiful music in the world, that moan has to be her very favorite. “You know me. I do get a little excited . . .”</p><p>Mercedes’s soft smile is so saintly, so patient, and Annette just falls in love with her all over again. “But you’ll take your time. For me?”</p><p>“For you?” Annette’s pink tongue darts out and slithers around the clamped nipple, then she sucks all of it into her mouth with a contented sigh. “Anything.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Acheron/Metodey: Spanking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So fucking undignified. That’s how Metodey feels, bent over the weaselly little flip-flopping lordling’s knee. Like an undignified rat or ferret or something. Normally he’d slash somebody’s face for humiliating him like this. But for reasons he doesn’t really wanna examine, he gives Acheron a pass.</p><p>“And this one is for revealing our plans to Gloucester,” Acheron growls, with all the menace of a Pomeranian. All right, all right, so his voice isn’t the most intimidating. If Metodey’s really honest with himself, he’s not in it for his <em>voice.</em></p><p>He’s here for that sharp, agonizing <em>crack</em> against his bared ass, the skin flaring with so much heat as it ripples through muscle and fat that he wants to skin it right off.</p><p>Acheron grunts as his hand stays firm against Metodey’s flank, and nails bite into the flesh. “Think you’ve learned your lesson yet, you cur?”</p><p>Metodey blinks back the rush of tears that sting his eyes, and hisses through clenched teeth until he’s certain he’s stifled the urge to scream in pain. He’s rock hard, erection digging into Acheron’s thigh, he knows, but he wouldn’t be the murderous rat the prissy noble knows and—loves? Nah, tolerates—if he didn’t play a pain in the ass to get.</p><p>Running from him, threatening to skin him, whispering about his latest assassinations in his ear after they fuck—he’s way crueler than that dumb Vestra kid, after all—Acheron puts up with it all. And Metodey, for his part, he’ll never let him forget.</p><p>“I dunno, Achy. You might have to show me again.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Zagreus/Thanatos: Semi-public</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Careful, Than.” Zagreus tangles his fingers in silky white locks and pulls tight. “I’d hate for your next victim to see you this way.”</p><p>To say Thanatos is <em>writhing</em> as Zagreus slams into him, other hand clenched around his hip, would not be quite accurate. The god of death would like to think he is perfectly in control of himself, even in the throes of ecstasy. “If you’d just keep your voice down—Aah!”</p><p>Zagreus chuckles, the little shit, and holds himself inside Thanatos, pressing relentlessly against his prostate. Thanatos has no choice but to bite down on his own wrist to muffle his (hopeless, needy, overemotional) whines. “I don’t think I’m the one who needs to keep my voice down, Than. You’re liable to wake the dead with those moans.”</p><p>“I’m not a violent death,” Thanatos growls, “but I’ll kill you myself if I have to—”</p><p>Before he can finish, though, he’s losing control, his muscles tensing furiously and his eyes rolling back as bliss floods through him, as he lets go. He’s never surrendered like this before; he’s always kept careful control of his life, his everything. But Zagreus has a way of making him want to throw that all away. He’s always known Thanatos’s weak spots, and there’s no greater one than <em>him</em>.</p><p>When he crashes back down to himself, Zagreus is sagging over him, sweat dripping onto Thanatos’s back as he feels sticky seed running down his thighs. They’re both gasping for breath, and Zagreus keeps running tender fingers through Thanatos’s hair, as if it isn’t completely wrecked. He’ll definitely have to keep his hood up for this job.</p><p>“I think your shouting startled your prey away,” Zagreus says, laughing to himself as he peers down the hillside toward the vineyard where Thanatos’s next job awaited. Or did.</p><p>“Damn.” Thanatos gives Zagreus a playful shove to get him off of him. “I suppose I’ll have to claim him another time.”</p><p>“Lucky him. And lucky me.” He nips at the back of Thanatos’s neck, and Thanatos sighs, heat stirring in him once more. Damn Zagreus and how greedy he makes him. How very much he makes him want to indulge for a change. “What do you say we find more villagers to run off?”</p><p>Thanatos shakes his head. “You’re incorrigible, prince.”</p><p>“That isn’t a no.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Sylvain/Hubert: Lingerie, heels</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hubert takes an anxious, tentative step into their room, pointed stiletto clicking with the finality of a lock. It isn’t unfamiliarity with the heels and clothing that makes his ankle wobble as he steadies himself, but the man waiting for him, sprawled on the bed with his usual wry grin. It still robs Hubert’s breath away, yet this time, he’s holding it, more anxious than usual. He takes a few steps further, then stops, one foot slightly forward, and runs his hands down his sides. “Well?” His bare fingers skim over the black straps and lace of the bodycage and garters, to the tops of his stockings. “What do you think?”</p><p>Sylvain’s bronze gaze chases the path of Hubert’s fingertips, and he gives a lift of his eyebrows. “Wow. I’ve never seen you like this before. C’mere.”</p><p>Hubert swallows, throat tightening, but strides toward the bed. He knows what his body looks like; lanky, frame too large for his lithe form, with brutish, unpretty muscles for brutish, unpretty deeds. A distinct lack of curves to flesh out the bodycage with its elegant lace, pulled tight on his pale skin. As much as he loves to wear the delicate pieces, he knows how out of place they look on him, and his relationship with Sylvain feels too new and fragile to be revealing his flaws so soon. Thrusting his inadequacy in his face, when he could have any beauty he desires.</p><p>But Sylvain places a meaty palm to his hip, and Hubert shivers, skin awakening in response.</p><p>“Beautiful.”</p><p>Sylvain kisses the pointed edge of Hubert’s shoulder, mouth so soft and warm.</p><p>“Elegant.”</p><p>He tugs at one of the black straps, fingers slipping underneath it to cup at Hubert’s chest and pinch a nipple between his fingers, and Hubert sucks in his breath.</p><p>“Perfect.”</p><p>Hubert’s whole body must surely be red now as he turns into Sylvain’s arm. “Surely you don’t mean that.”</p><p>But Sylvain’s hands keep roaming, gliding over his angles as softly as if they were perfect curves, and stops when he reaches them around to heft one cheek of Hubert’s ass in each hand. “I do mean it. You’re stunning, babe.” He huffs a little laugh to himself. “But don’t take my word for it. Let me show you.”</p><p>He grips Hubert’s ankle, and kisses up the inside of his leg, then runs his tongue along the stocking edge. Hubert chokes back a sob, but lets him.</p><p>“Fair warning, though.”</p><p>Hubert raises an eyebrow as Sylvain’s nails dig into the stocking, and with a rip, it begins to ladder up Hubert’s leg.</p><p>“I sure hope you don’t mind me buying a new set for you. Because this one’s gonna get wrecked.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Hubert/Ferdinand: Weaponplay</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hubert drags the knife over the firm lines of Ferdinand’s thigh, angling it just enough to tease the edge of the blade, as if he means to scrape those bronzy freckles right off.</p><p>“Tell me, von Aegir.” Hubert’s chin is hooked over his shoulder, standing behind the chair where Ferdinand is bound naked. But Hubert is dressed in something like his usual interrogation gear: black trousers, black gloves, black dress shirt—somewhat more unbuttoned than he usually would, but all the same. “When you dreamed of baring yourself to me, at my mercy—is this what you had in mind?”</p><p>Ferdinand swallows, and Hubert could swear he hears his prey’s pulse, hot blood racing through him, faster and faster. “S-something like this. Yes.”</p><p>Hubert works his gloved fingers into a mass of orange curls and tightens his grip while the other hand skids the knife lower, curving toward Ferdinand’s inner thigh. “Am I not frightening you enough?” He tilts his head, nostrils flaring as he releases hot breath down Ferdinand’s collarbone. A quick glance down his sharp abs and he glimpses Ferdinand’s erection growing, flushed red. “I have plenty of other tools I can ply.”</p><p>“Erm. What . . . <em>kind</em> of tools?”</p><p>Hubert chuckles, and rolls the knife so the blade is parallel with skin now. “Knives are, quite frankly, impractical for fine, delicate work. So blunt and broad. If I’m not too precise with my cuts, they can slip so easily.” He presses in the knife’s tip. “What’s supposed to be a shallow nick can sever an artery.”</p><p>Ferdinand sucks in his breath, a soft dissonant chime, but manages not to move otherwise. “And what is it that you want to do, Minister Vestra?”</p><p>“Mm. I’d like to see a trickle of red. Just a single bead or two, I think.” He traces his nose along Ferdinand’s shoulder. “Taste you for myself. Let you sample the real fear I’m capable of drawing out.”</p><p>“Please,” Ferdinand whispers, fingers grasping and curling at air. “Please do so.”</p><p>He flicks the blade, and a thin prick appears on Ferdinand’s thigh, drops of red welling up. Ferdinand grits his teeth against a whimper, but his heavy breath, his throbbing cock reveal the truth that Hubert’s always known about him.</p><p>The upright noble is in love with danger. Pain.</p><p>“More,” Ferdinand gasps, but Hubert shakes his head, chuckling, as he sets aside the knife. He trails his gloved finger over the blood and brings it to his lips.</p><p>“Mm. That’s enough for this session.” He drops the hand back down between Ferdinand’s legs and crudely grips his shaft. “But we can call this the first of many.”</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Dedue/Dimitri: Overstimulation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It isn’t just the sight of his king sobbing into the rumpled bedsheets, the pools of seed staining them and dripping down his thighs as he tries to hold himself up on his knees—though Dedue does not mind this sight in the least. But no, his real reward is knowing that, having made a broken, sobbing mess of Dimitri, having milked him and fucked him and stroked him far past his climax, he’s chased away all the other thoughts and fears and ghosts that usually crowd his head.</p><p>“Dedue, please . . .” Dimitri curls forward, tears leaving an angry red track down his left cheek. “Please, I don’t think I can—I don’t know if I—”</p><p>Dedue grinds his three fingers hard right into the king’s hole, twisting as he shoves, and he knows the moment he strikes Dimitri’s prostate again when his husband collapses into pained wails.</p><p>“I have faith in you, Your Majesty, to give me one more.”</p><p>In truth, he’s a little awed Dimitri has lasted this long. Dedue himself already came twice inside of him, and that was after drawing out three from Dimitri. Usually, though, he prefers when they’re face to face. He likes to see the wash of pleasure over his features, to kiss both his eyebrows and his mouth to guide him through it. After the past few nights’ nightmares, though, He knows when he needs to be rough. When the king needs his face ground into his own filth like the basest rubbish.</p><p>Dimitri’s hole is puffy and red from tonight’s overuse, but still his muscles try to grab and squeeze at Dedue’s fingers. Futile. The minute Dedue thrusts them deeper, Dimitri goes slack once more, and that feral growl escapes him, the one only for Dedue’s ears.</p><p>How he tries to stay so composed, so at peace when they are at the royal court. How he strives to never expose the demons carved into his scars, never once hint at those dark years of war now past. Only Dedue sees the true Dimitri that still scrabbles and claws under the surface, and only he has the patience—the passion—to let that beast wear itself out.</p><p>Never a duty, always a privilege. A gift he demands from his king, again and again.</p><p>There is no staying upright now for Dimitri, no chance of enduring anything more. Drool puddles under his mouth as he tries to look back at his husband, but Dedue shushes him, and cradles him into his arms.</p><p>“Such a good boy,” he murmurs, holding the broken heap of Dimitri, letting him cry and gasp for air as he carries him toward their bath. “I knew you had it in you.”</p><p>Dimitri curls up against him and lets his eye close. “Always for you.”</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Claude/Lorenz: Catboy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know, Lor,” Claude says, unable to stop grinning, “one could say this is fitting punishment for you snooping in Ferdie’s medicine cabinet.”</p><p>Lorenz flicks his newly-sprouted violet tail with a hiss. “That is hardly the point.”</p><p>Claude struggles to hold back a snicker. “You could even say—”</p><p>Lorenz’s cat ears flatten back against his head. “Don’t say it—”</p><p>“Curiosity killed the—”</p><p>Lorenz pounces on top of him, pinning Claude to the just-made sheets of their guest bedroom in the Vestra-Aegir country estate. “Enough! It isn’t funny.” His tail hooks over his shoulder, twitching back and forth as he glowers down at Claude. “I had no idea what sort of weird . . . animalistic . . . <em>nonsense</em> my best friend’s husband was into.”</p><p>“Which is exactly why you were snooping.” Claude reaches out and catches that angry tail in his palm, and it curls around his hand, almost instinctive. “Gotta say, though, it’s certainly a cute look on you. The ears, the tail? I think your eye shape even changed a little.”</p><p>A low <em>purr</em> escapes Lorenz as Claude continues to stroke his tail, and his eyes partly lid, pleased. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve no idea how long this is even supposed to last! How can I go downstairs and face them for breakfast like this?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Claude murmurs, and lifts his other hand to scritch behind one of those soft, velvety cat ears. “How can you possibly leave this room until this clears up . . .”</p><p>The tail winds around Claude’s wrist as Lorenz softens in his arms. It really does suit him, Claude thinks, kissing his neck. The man’s half-cat in personality anyway. Just as prickly, just as sweet. And that purring . . .</p><p>“Mmh . . .” Lorenz drowsily kisses Claude, and slips one hand under his tunic. Is Claude just imagining it, or are his nails a little sharper? “That does feel very nice.”</p><p>Claude lowers his hand between Lorenz’s legs, and gives a slow palming to the outline of his cock beneath silk sleep camisole. “Y’know, I’m always telling you to be more vocal in bed. I guess purring counts.”</p><p>“You can’t possibly want to sleep with me like this,” Lorenz mumbles, ears twitching.</p><p>But Claude leans up and nibbles at the furry edge of one cat ear. “And why not? We gotta kill some time until this wears off, anyhow.” He takes firm hold of his cock, and as much as he’s grinning, he imagines his own green eyes might have a catty glow to them. “Let’s just see how much I can make you purr.”</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Dorothea/Edelgard: Mirror sex</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> The imperial bedroom may be vast, but all they need is this: the needlessly oversized, gilded mirror, the chair they’re surely staining, and Her Majesty herself, right here seated in front of Dorothea, back arched as Dorothea holds her steady.</p><p>“Do you see now,” she murmurs, “Your Majesty, how beautiful you are?”</p><p>A delicate painted nail traces over one of the ropes of scars over Edelgard’s shoulder and dips down toward her breast. Edelgard’s deepest shame, the worst time of her life—and Dorothea is treating it with tenderness, with care, like something cherished and sacred on her skin. Dorothea’s other hand is between her legs, two fingers pressing inside of her, and as wonderful as they feel, it feels even odder, even more amazing, to watch her doing so in that mirror. To know her body, carved and torn as it is, is being loved—</p><p>Edelgard chokes back a sob as Dorothea’s thumb finds her clit once more, and she’s pulsing with another climax, her own nails digging into Dorothea’s bare thigh. “Fuck,” she whispers, “how do you do that, how do you . . .” Her whole body is throbbing as she crashes down, but she’s not so gone that she can’t feel Dorothea’s lips on the ugliest scar at the base of her neck, kissing and licking and steadying her through it all.</p><p>“How can I not, with such a pretty lady in my lap?” Dorothea sweeps back a loose moon-silvered lock from Edelgard’s cheek so she can kiss it, then her free hand is roaming again, tracking the path of one of those scars as if she can erase it. Watching her, watching them <em>both</em>, feeling the heat and thin sweat between them, it feels like maybe she really can.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="http://twitter.com/Bohemienne6">@Bohemienne6</a>
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